


Sunday

by Mox-Nox-In-Rem (Clothilde)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mycroft has a cat, Soft Smut Sunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clothilde/pseuds/Mox-Nox-In-Rem
Summary: Mycroft Holmes was not, generally speaking, a man who indulged in lie-ins. But Sunday might just be an exception.





	Sunday

Mycroft Holmes was not, generally speaking, a man who indulged in lie-ins. On weekdays, he was up at five and usually at his desk by seven. On Saturdays, he started the day with his long run of the week and then tended to work from home or head out to his club, dealing as swiftly as  possible with any emergencies in order to devote the rest of the day to strategy. Those evenings he escaped from his desk were spent at tedious but necessary social events, or, if he was particularly lucky, stretching his long legs towards the warmth of the fire in the drawing room with a glass of scotch, a good book, and Marlowe purring comfortingly in his lap. His occasional lovers were scheduled carefully into the pattern of his week, and were never around on Sundays.

Because whenever he got the opportunity, Sundays were just for Mycroft. A cup of lapsang Souchong in bed with Marlowe’s soft grey fur under his fingers and sharp claws kneading through fabric into his thighs. Toast and marmalade while listening to the Archers omnibus and reading the papers. The lingering rasp of incense and the glorious language of the book of Common Prayer. Chamber music in St John’s, Smith Square. A gentle walk in the footsteps of his favourite literary characters. Time to experiment with a new recipe or indulge in a trusted favourite. An old film noir or forties melodrama. A bath before bed, warm water scented with herbs and Siberian fir followed by soft, cool sheets. 

And the rather exciting occasional presence in recent weeks of Detective Inspector Lestrade in his bed had done nothing to change this routine. They both managed to find time for quick mid-week drinks and Friday night dinner followed by surprisingly athletic sex, exhausted sleep  and a hurried breakfast before setting off to deal with all the commitments of a busy day.

Until last night, when Mycroft's presence was needed to calm the chaos Sherlock had left at a crime scene, and it was almost three in the morning by the time he and Gregory had things under control. He could blame the lateness of the hour for his impulsive invitation to the Inspector, but suspected that even when fully-rested  he would have been unable to resist the way the corners of Gregory's eyes wrinkled when he smiled, or the way the breadth of his shoulders became so apparent when he stretched.

There had been no athletic sex when they got home, just the warmth of naked skin, the tickle of grey hair against his lips and a whispered “goodnight” before sleep took over.  Daylight brought the soft rumble of Gregory’s snoring and the insistent meowing of a cat demanding his breakfast. Pulling on a dressing gown to empty his bladder and feed the cat was a straightforward enough action to take, but after that, what? Would Gregory want to rush back to his own regular Sunday activities? Would he expect to stay? What would he want to do? As Mycroft felt the first stirrings of panic, he decided to keep things simple and fall back on routine. Returning to  bed with one cup of lapsang Souchong and one of Tanzanian peaberry, he found Gregory smiling up at him sleepily, his eyes scrunched up as they adjusted to daylight.

“Fuck, Mycroft, your feet are bloody freezing -  let me warm you up!”

Greg hooked a warm leg around Mycroft, pulling him closer and resting a stubbled face on his chest as he stroked gently up and down his lover’s side. He kept on stroking, not talking beyond a gentle, affectionate murmur, pausing from time to time to sip his coffee before returning to nuzzle into Mycroft's neck and run his fingers through the reddish hair on his chest. In the middle of kissing the freckles scattered across Mycroft's collar-bone he looked up, his eyes shining with delightful possibilities.

“Do you have plans? For today...this morning? Because I've never really had time to just explore you, sweetheart, and I'm thinking that a lazy morning in bed together might be nice.”

Mycroft's cock supplied the reply before his brain had a chance to intervene.

“An entire morning in bed with you does have a certain appeal. There's nothing that can't wait until later. I like to keep my Sundays free whenever I possibly can.”

“I'll just send a message to say I’m skipping football this week and then I'm all yours”.

Gregory’s phone was placed once more on the bedside table, carefully turned to silent. Mycroft grinned up at him, arms folded behind his head.

The mattress roiled beneath them as Gregory knelt up, thighs straddling Mycroft's shins. Hands, warm from the coffee cup, ghosted along the hairs of his thighs, sensation without touch. Gregory didn't move beyond this rhythmic, almost absent-minded stroking, but Mycroft could feel the weight of his gaze pinning him down as effectively as hands over his wrists. He lay unmoving, exposed, trapped and all at once he flushed, squirming with the need to break this gaze, to touch, to kiss, to bite, to do anything to distract the man above him from the disappointing reality of his body.

Gregory placed a hand on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft didn't move, but he closed his eyes. It did nothing to lessen his awareness of Gregory's gaze on him. Gregory's movements were painfully, agonisingly slow. Fingertips trailed lightly across freckles, chased by the nibbling press of lips. Stubble dragged  along the smooth skin of his side, before a face pressed into his armpit, fingers tugged at his pubic hair, and Gregory started murmuring, his voice low in a litany of desire.

Mycroft was only vaguely aware of Gregory's words. He was achingly hard, barely able to focus on anything but his own body, his earlier self-consciousness vanished in a haze of pleasure. The slow caresses had left every part of him sensitive, responding to the slightest touch with overwhelming sensation. But there was no touch in the place he most wanted to feel it. There were teeth on his ear, nails raking up his inner thigh, a sharp pinch on his nipple,  a strong leg curled tightly around his own, holding him in place and preventing his blind thrusting from making contact.

Mycroft had always prided himself on being a generous lover. His life was not, generally, one in which he had much opportunity to make other people happy, so he took an uninhibited joy in giving his partners as much pleasure as he possibly could. He had never before, however, been on the receiving end of a single-minded focus on his own desires. It was almost too much. It was wonderful.

Strong hands turned him until he lay on his front. Those hands continued stroking him, from arse to shoulders to arms and fingers and back again. Gregory’s cock lay heavy, nestled against his buttocks. Mycroft felt warm breath on the back of his neck, and the stroking was replaced by a trail of kisses down his back, and then lower, a strong, slick tongue flickering over his arsehole. He drew his knees up underneath his body and relaxed his face into his arms. Gregory’s tongue didn't stop, circling, poking, licking down his perineum to his balls back again. This wasn't preparation, it was play, and Mycroft delighted in it, moaning and thrusting incoherently against the mattress with only the most basic level of self-control left.

But that was just enough control for him to pull away and sit up, flushed and sweaty, and drag Gregory close for a kiss, hands tangled in rumpled hair, lips and tongue and teeth casting aside finesse in favour of pure  _ want. _ Mycroft lost himself in sensation - the crisp curl of the scatter of hair on Gregory's chest, his gasp as Mycroft licked a nipple, the musky warmth of Gregory's groin. He licked, he sucked, he bit, he scratched, touching every part of Gregory he could reach, filled with a longing for closeness that felt almost like physical hunger.

With complete and uncharacteristic disregard for his sheets, he warmed a palmful of oily lube in his hands and stroked his lover in all the places he had observed would elicit the loudest gasp, the most intense clenching of muscles before succumbing to temptation and lying with Gregory beneath him, rubbing against him with all the subtlety of a desperate teenager before reaching down with one hand to stroke. He felt Gregory's hand joining his own and pulled away from a kiss to look at brown eyes, pupils blown huge with passion, crow’s feet deepened in an agonised expression, and at lips parted to gasp in shallow, panting breaths. He held Gregory’s gaze as he watched him tense and shudder, spilling onto his hand and chest, and kept it there as his own orgasm followed. As his breath returned to normal and he felt a lassitude creep over his entire body, he lowered his head onto Gregory's chest and smiled.

Damp limbs tangled together, bodies smeared with oil and cum, the two men dozed until hunger brought them back to a sleepy awareness.

'The sheets are already an unspeakable mess” Mycroft murmured into Gregory's hair, his expression half way between embarrassment and smug delight.

“Shall we compound the offence by having breakfast in bed and getting crumbs everywhere?”

Gregory stretched lazily, and grinned up at Mycroft.

“Sounds perfect, sweetheart. Breakfast in bed together while we decide what we want to do with the rest of the day. I….I  looked online the other week and noticed there's a nice walk along the river with a decent pub half way through. Maybe we could go out for a late lunch?”

“I think I would enjoy that very much…. And I was wondering, if you were free of course, if perhaps I might cook dinner for you here next Saturday evening?”

Gregory was kind enough to ignore the flush that spread across Mycroft's face as he asked the question, and replied with an easy smile.

“I’m free. When I'm not working, I like to keep my Sundays special, just for me, so if you like we could, you know…”

Mycroft slipped out of bed, doing his best not to be self-conscious as he wrapped himself in his dressing gown.

“You may assure yourself, Gregory, that I would most certainly like that.”

As he opened the door, a streak of grey fur shot past Mycroft's legs and leapt onto the bed to curl up on the rumpled duvet. Walking down to the kitchen for toast and marmalade, Mycroft paused on the stairs to listen to the gentle Sunday sounds of church bells, a distant lawnmower and Marlowe purring in Gregory's arms.


End file.
